


Panacea

by noadventureshere



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 02:53:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4730051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noadventureshere/pseuds/noadventureshere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Panacea: 1. A remedy for all diseases or ills; cure all. 2. An answer or solution for all problems or difficulties.</p><p>Inspired and prodded by AtlinMerrick and her work, Love is... Chapter 8, Looking Up</p>
            </blockquote>





	Panacea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Love Is...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4361579) by [AtlinMerrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick). 



John Watson’s grandmother dies in late July. She had been dying for years and seemed smugly confident in her ability to outlive them all. Until there is suddenly no more time. A tickle turned into a cough turned into a seizing into a morning where she did not wake. In the end, they are surprised. A bubble of grief bursting over them and leaving them un-moored; John and Harry are well and truly orphans. John is adrift. And Sherlock drifts with him, neither grounded for a time.

John breathes into silence. So Sherlock fills it. A walking, talking London A-Z. He keeps up a murmured commentary from dawn til dusk. They walk for miles, but John has no idea where they go. He only had eyes for Sherlock. Sherlock who is spinning, spinning through the city. Using its oddities to distract himself from the hurts he cannot fix. Seeking in his own way, to anchor them back to the city that is home.

In turn, John distracts himself by watching Sherlock. He watches his curls ruffling and twisting in the breeze. Breathes deeply the light sweat of him, brought on by layers of cotton and wool in the summer sun. His eyes trace the faint freckling on Sherlock’s cheeks, invisible most seasons. He sees the way he squints against the surprising moments of sunlight, looking, looking up. The way they flash when he spies something new and interesting to point out. John presses himself close until he can feel that lovely, warm voice rumble through him. He watches Sherlock’s mouth move as he points out amusing architecture. Watches the corners of that lush bow twist upwards the tiniest amount. It’s meant to be funny, so he laughs. He tries to press gratitude into Sherlock with his lips. His heart aches with loss and bursts with love for his uncommon man. He tucks his love and his hurt into his mouth and lets them swallow his words.

And when there is no more fighting it, he lets the memories crash over him. Memories of warmth and light and the sweet/sour taste of cherries bursting on his tongue. He holds Sherlock as if he were drowning. Sherlock lifts John’s face to his own and John can see his hurt reflected and magnified in icy blue eyes. He lets Sherlock cover him with kisses and there is laughter and the slow slide of skin on skin. Then there is gasping and teary-eyed release.

For even hurting, he is a healer. So he will let his lover be a panacea. And though there is grief, there will also be joy. 

And the taste of cherries.


End file.
